


in your hands i fold these cards

by prettyshiroic (dinosuns)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bonding, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Pampering, Season/Series 01, Sleepovers, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Touch-Starved, set in S1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 04:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13473546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosuns/pseuds/prettyshiroic
Summary: Pidge shares some thoughts, Lance shares his skincare routine.Keith shares so much more than he planned to.





	in your hands i fold these cards

**Author's Note:**

> some bonding time for this trio - super fun to write!

“A sleepover?”

From the doorway, Keith glances between Pidge and Lance. He's naturally incredulous. Out of all the things they’ve chosen to do in this rare downtime onboard the castle, they’ve chosen _this_. Blankets are thrown across Lance’s bedroom floor, where the two sit between a pile of unlabelled bottles and something that looks like an old music player.

And to think, that’s not even the most baffling part of all this. The baffling part is that they’re including _him -_ out of choice. After a long day of training, exhaustion had swept across the paladins like a plague that couldn’t be shaken. Hunk had gotten snappy only to then get teary and profusely apologetic, Lance had grown quiet in a way that was uncomfortable and somehow brought the entire team’s enthusiasm down a peg. Pidge grew irritable in her actions, Shiro had been twitchy.  

Overall, it had been a concoction for nothing other than squabbling and going _back_ on all the progress they’d made. So Allura conceded they should unwind a fraction earlier than usual. With a few hours free before the general lights out, Keith thought that time could be spent pushing his exhaustion to the limit. But as he’d made his move to leave for the training deck, the blue and green paladin exchanged quite frankly devious grins before sweeping him off in the other direction. Keith had been so startled by the attention he barely resisted. Not to mention, he’d been a little curious.

He is still curious.

 _Because this doesn’t normally happen._ He does his thing, they do theirs. They come together for Voltron, they eat and train together. That’s about it. He doesn’t begrudge them for being better friends with each other than they are with him. It makes sense. And Keith would be lying if he said he wasn’t touched that they thought to invite him. Even if he’s wary - there’s an uncomfortable tightness in his throat, an ache in his bones that won’t cease.

Somewhere else, Allura and Coran are indulging the space mice in a preview of their latest show.

And in the kitchen, Hunk and Shiro are baking. The thought of making muffins had Shiro’s eyes gleaming with the kind of excitement Keith hadn’t seen for a long time. Keith already knows how that’s going to play out. His lips curl around the edges fondly at the thought of Shiro pouting down at the charred treats. Maybe he has a chance with Hunk to create something other than disaster in the kitchen.

The team are scattered around, fully appreciating the chance to unwind. And Keith’s here, lingering in the doorway of Lance’s room. Just through this, he’s already pushed further into the circle he keeps himself outside of.

"A sleepover," Lance confirms. 

“Well technically - it’s not _actually_ a sleepover because, I mean, how are we supposed to decide what constitutes as day and night in space? Especially when our measurements of time on earth may not be the most effective method of-”

“- _Pidge_ ,” Lance and Keith say together. The pair of them catch eyes, as if surprised they were so in sync for a moment. Keith can’t deny it’s a little spooky, he doesn't blame Lance for rubbing a hand down his face in mild shock. Sheepishly, Pidge adjusts her glasses.

“Are you coming in or not mullet?” Lance asks petulantly, snapping out of his ‘well-that-was-weird’ trance. “We’re running behind schedule here because of your ditherdathering!”

Ah. _That’s more like it._

Leaning a little further into the doorway, Keith raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure that’s not a word.”

Sometimes it can be cathartic in an unexpected way, this bickering that leads absolutely nowhere. Stripped of ill-intent, no longer something that genuinely frustrates Keith or can slice through him. If anything, it’s become a habit - their default way of communication.

“Oh yeah?” Lance rises to the bait, just as expected.

“Yeah.” And Keith parries back, just as expected.

“Well I’m _pretty sure_ nobody cares! Now stop standing there looking all edgy and cool and just get over here so we can begin.”

“Right. Gotta keep on schedule,” Keith counters even though he probably shouldn’t take the road to sarcasm town so early on. Finally entering this room is a quiet confirmation of everything that’s burning on his tongue. It’s easier if he pretends not to notice the way Pidge’s eyes light up, as if catching sight of the sun peaking through turbulent grey clouds. Lance sits up straighter, unashamed and delighted.

“Um, yeah of course we do! Dude, what do you think people even do at sleepovers?”

Keith hopes the question is rhetorical, but he _knows_ Lance. Despite progress between them, lines still get crossed and wires get twisted. Blinking, Keith processes the fact that Lance really is about to explain sleepovers to him. As if the name isn't obvious enough. It's as unintentionally patronising as it is unknowingly insulting.

“Sleepovers have nothing to do with sleeping. It’s more like-”

“Yeah. I know what a sleepover is, Lance,” Keith drawls flatly because contrary to popular belief living in the middle of the desert doesn't make him a complete hermit distinctly unaware of human customs.

The delivery is all wrong. It's meant to be offhanded, casually dismissive. But there’s too much bite to the words, enough for Pidge and Lance to exchange glances. Keith opts to ignore it, chewing his lip and sucking it back with a sharp intake of air. He wants to make this work. _He really does._ Lance is trying for something closer to friendship than he has for some time, actually making an effort to keep the farce of a rivalry behind closed doors. That counts for something. He’s reluctant to cling onto hope _they’re friends_ just yet. However, Keith wants to try.

Loosening the tension in his shoulders, his lips twitch. For good measure, Keith pulls the knife from his belt. His eyes flick between Lance and the tip.

“It’s when people get together in the middle of the night and make a sacrifice to the devil.”

Lance flounders like a fish out of water, jaw hanging open. Maybe in another situation it’d be hurtful that the blue paladin doesn't realise immediately that Keith is joking. But right now, Keith plays the card of pettiness to its maximum potential. He's used to people somehow equating his default expression to be an intimidating one rather than sharp focus on the task. He's also used to people making the most absurd assumptions over the possibility, that yes, he has a sense of humour. Deliberately smiling at people unprompted in corridors of the garrison had been the most amusing proof of that. Now is proof of that, too.

Arching a brow, Keith struggles to keep his expression neutral. Pidge is grinning and it's enough for Keith to work with.

“Hold him still.”

Pidge pounces on Lance’s back who gives a shrill yelp despite himself.

“Get off get off get off!!” Lance shrieks desperately. “Get! Off!”

It's so ridiculous that Keith can't bring himself to feel bad about it, because the thought of him ever hurting a teammate is so far-fetched. If he dwells on it too much, the silly prank will hang over him like a taunting shadow, whisper words into his ear. Thankfully, Lance keeps things from getting stagnant. He’s always been good at that amongst other things.

“Oh _ha-ha-ha.”_ Lance’s expression sours, squinting. “Let’s all make fun of Lance.”

Keith shrugs, smirk merely growing. “Just getting even.”

It’s not even Keith’s best line, a simple admission of an unspoken truth rather than something comical. However, Pidge bursts into a kind of laughter that can’t be feigned. That has Lance gawking.

“Pidge?!” He cries, gesturing dramatically to Keith. “Oh come on, you’re taking his side?”

Shoulders shaking, Keith brings a hand to his mouth. It's easier to tug hard from the grip of a solitude that tells him that he can’t make friends and laugh directly in its face. He thinks he’s being subtle, evidence carefully tucked away. But admittedly, Lance has great perception.

“Stop laughing! _Both_ of you!” Lance points a finger at Keith whilst glaring over his shoulder at Pidge. There's no real heat to his words judging by the way the scowl softens at the sight of Pidge draped lazily over his back with her eyes squeezed shut, wearing the biggest smile Keith’s ever seen on anyone’s face. His chest aches at the sight. Pidge looks happy. There’s something so carefree about her expression. It has the tension in Keith’s stomach flipping over itself messily.

“I hate you guys,” Lance crosses his arms, nose poking high into the air.

Pidge rolls her eyes. “No you don't.”

Keith yearns for the day he truly believes those words.

“Yeah I do.”

“No, you don't.”

Pidge nudges Lance’s head playfully before flopping back down onto the blankets. There’s a spring in her movements that’s entirely born from silliness. On the battlefield Pidge is nimble, but never loose and unwound. Seeing her unhinged feels like a huge breach of privacy, peeking through windows Keith doesn't know he should. There are palpable cracks in the glass, ones Pidge does a good job of hiding. With enough pressure it could shatter and between the sharp shards reveal an ugly truth.

Pidge is so brave because she's so scared. She stares down fear head on across the chessboard and makes her next move. Keith prefers to cut it down in one clean strike. But there’s probably a benefit to caging it in stasis.

After all, Pidge is smart. She's smart but she doesn't have all the answers. That kind of genius in face of a personal crisis is bound to be destructive. Consuming. Even for Keith, the prospect of the unknown - of never knowing - is overwhelmingly frightening. Curiosity is a lurking shadow that mutates into an insatiable monster. Especially when the questions get too close, when its mark is already etched into bones like a riddle that can't be solved.

And boy are there riddles.

Blinking open an eye, Lance peers down at Pidge. As he turns, Keith chases the movement. He has to tear himself away from this somehow. And Lance has always been as fluid and dynamic as waves breaking over a distant shoreline. Not quite soothing, the sea isn't entirely without its troubles, but a constancy.

They're still communicating, saying words Keith can’t hear or follow. Keith watches them quietly, unsure if speaking would break this spell of casual intimacy he's not sure how to clock into.

Patting the floor, Pidge smiles over to Keith. The fire wanes enough for Keith to catch his breath.

“You can sit with us, you know.” She’s only teasing, but Keith feels embarrassed that he’s so uncertain about it.

Nodding weakly, he joins them on the blankets. _Come on._ Get it together. This is fine. If he lets it, this might even be fun.

“What’s all this stuff?” he asks, picking up one of the bottles. Lance snatches it out his hands, holding it reverently to his chest.

“That’s my moisturiser, and we’re nowhere _near_ that stage yet. First of all, I’m giving you both face masks.” Setting the moisturiser down, Lance leans forwards. “Man, have you even moisturised before?”

Keith swallows down his irritated response. It’s not like he had access to a great deal of stuff in the desert with hardly any money to his name. _Moisturiser_ hadn’t exactly been his priority. But he’d still washed his face with the essential shower gel and shampoo mix he could just about afford. That surely counts. The lack of an answer is perhaps more telling than anything Keith could’ve said. Reaching for the bowl on the side that looks like watered down food goo, Lance waves the question away.

“Whatever. Buckle up, because we’re going down to pamper town!”  

The words are followed by a small improvised beatbox. Or alternatively, a song - Keith honestly isn’t sure which it’s supposed to be. It’s more rhythmic than melodic. And it’s also far more endearing than it should be. Meeting Pidge’s eyes, Keith snorts. His attention swerves back to Lance when he feels something cold and wet being rubbed into his cheek. It feels disgusting.

“Relax, will you? You’re not helping your forehead lines here.” Lance dips his hand into the bowl, smearing the other side of Keith’s face with the mixture. The texture is questionable but it smells fruity. Not to mention the gentle circles Lance rubs across his face are more soothing than they probably should be. Averting his eyes, Keith absolutely doesn’t pout.

“I don’t have forehead lines,” he retorts with stubborn insistence.

“Well yeah, maybe _not now_. But the amount of scowling you do is going to make you more wrinkly than a wrinkly prune.”

Dipping her hand into the bowl, Pidge begins smearing the light green mix over her face. “You said wrinkly twice.”

“Because he’ll be twice as wrinkly, obviously.”

God. Lance just hates being proven wrong and it’s the funniest thing to witness.  

“That makes no sense,” Keith laughs, instinctively ducking his head to muffle the raspy sound. As a result, Lance’s hand butts against the side of his nose. Clasping his eyes shut, Keith grits his teeth. “...Ow?”

Shaking his hand vigorously, Lance frowns. It’s exaggerated and clearly for show, but then again Keith’s own reaction was delayed enough to be merely inciting a reaction. It's often that way between them.  

“Holy crow! Keith, geez - what are you made of, steel?”

Keith moves to sit on the bed, deciding that question isn’t worth an answer. He could part with a cryptic reference to a movie neither of the two will get, but that may be too much for their first social gathering. Instead, Keith leans against the back wall, watching Lance expertly apply the mixture to his skin. It is a truth universally acknowledged that Lance has the best skincare routine out of all the paladins. His regimen appears to be just as rigorous as Keith’s training sessions.

“...What next?” Keith does his best not to sound impatient, but if anything Lance is the one ' _ditherdathering’_ now.

Sitting here idle in a face mask without a clear goal or task might just be the amalgamation of Keith’s worst-case scenarios. If he sits here long enough, they might fall into smalltalk - or they might ask Keith personal questions and expect him to answer. Whilst he genuinely wants to build up this bond between them, he’s reluctant to reveal the finer fabrics weaving together his soul. It would leave him too open. Anyone could sweep in and pull the strings, yank them out of place.

Groaning, Lance throws his head back. “First, can you loosen up a bit buddy?”

Narrowing his eyes, Keith folds his arms. The implications of the words bother him more than expected. “You’re the one who said there was a schedule.”

“Well that’s irrelevant because we're on schedule!”

Keith shouldn’t push, but he does. He is trying to enjoy this. Only, he's not sure what ‘this’ is supposed to be. “I was just wondering what's next.”

“Quiznak, is there anything you two don’t squabble about?” Pidge is suddenly alarmingly close, hopping onto the bed beside Keith. With her interjection, the conversation fizzles out. On the floor, Lance sets down the bowl and stretches out with a content sigh.

“Man, this is good...”

A snicker from Pidge has Keith casting his attention towards her. It doesn’t sound malicious. As their eyes catch, Pidge nudges him with her elbow. The gesture is so casual it completely catches Keith off-guard. Raising an eyebrow, he waits for an explanation.

“You look kind of funny.”

Keith grins at that, pushing down on the heels of his hands. She’s not wrong. Keith guesses his face looks just about as frightful as hers, plastered in thick green gloop. Classic Area 51 vibes. His face is tingling, which probably means the stuff is doing its job.

“Maybe. It feels nice though,” Keith admits.

His feet swing off the edge of the bed lazily, occasionally nudging into Lance’s side. There’s no reaction, which compels Keith to swing a little more. A light smack to his foot has Keith smirking down at Lance’s back. Lance remains suspiciously quiet and unprovoked, but that’s not worth investigating right now. The quiet hanging between the three of them has begun to blossom. There’s no urgency to speak for the sake of filling the gaps, no pressing need to rush anything at all. This isn’t at all what Keith thought it would be.

“Hey, Pidge.” Leaning closer, Keith lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m an alien.”

“I knew it.”

Rolling over to face Pidge, Keith gives a tentative smile. They both look a bit silly, but they’re bonding. Even if it’s just a sleepover.

“Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“Not really,” Pidge says with a shrug. “I didn’t have a lot of friends at school.”

An uncomfortable pang bursts in Keith’s chest. The words are parted with so easily, but it’s difficult for him to digest. Mostly because Keith knows that kind of evasion, he knows that tone. Pidge flicks her eyes down, offering a smile that’s nothing short of forced. Fabricated indifference. Stick to the corners, keep to yourself. And the thought of anyone _ever_ making fun of Pidge for being smart and enthusiastic about anything, or deliberately isolating her, has him clenching his fist in frustration.

People can be good, but sometimes they can be really awful.

Peering over the edge of the bed, Keith almost jumps at the sight of Lance. The blue paladin is leaning against the side of the bed, vibrant eye-mask on and one headphone sitting on his ear. Well. No wonder he’s been so quiet.

“Lance,” Keith tries. Nothing. Reaching for the headphones, he momentarily considers the soft jazz piano before continuing. “ _Lance.”_

“Hm?”

Keith prods him pointedly with his foot. That’s enough for Lance to lift up his eye-mask, indignant over the interruption. Before Lance can get the question in, Keith hovers over the edge of the bed, cocking his head to the side.

“Tell Pidge how cool she is.”

Lance is better at this than he is. Out of the both of them, he has the best shot at getting a real smile from Pidge.

“Pfft. Pidge is cooler than cool,” Lance begins with a casual wave of his hand. Wiggling his eyebrows, he leaps to his feet. “And what’s cooler than being cool?”

Immediately, Pidge sits up and Keith is incredibly unprepared for what happens next. This juxtaposition is so surreal. They’re caught in the middle of a terrible war, danger could strike at any corner. Yet here he is, watching two paladins of Voltron in their pyjamas dissolve into big goofy grins. Add in the fact the face masks are bright green and gooey, and well - it really paints quite the picture.

“Ice cold!” The pair of them chant, Lance dabbing for extra impact.

It should be enough. Pidge is smiling. Still, Keith pushes off the bed intently. His hasty motions tug their focus towards him.

“Pidge, it’s true. You-.... you are cool.” For the times people made her feel like she wasn’t, for the times she might not believe in herself, Keith wants to say it. And he wants to make sure she understands. Because Keith knows firsthand how much hearing these things from somebody else means.

“I- just…” A sigh. “Listen.” Throwing his hands out passionately, Keith continues. His gaze meanders despite the previous swell of confidence. “You figure out how to use really cool alien tech super fast, and you’re always making stuff that help us with missions. You’re not ashamed of what you like or talking about it and I - I think that’s pretty cool, I mean-...it’s-”

“Cool?” Lance finishes flippantly. Before Keith can snap back,  _he's trying,_ Pidge cuts in.

“How many times are you going to say the word cool, Keith?” She leers whilst adjusting her glasses. Despite the remark, Keith catches the pink tinge to her cheeks. That’s indication enough the sincerity of his words have been appreciated.

Lips tugging into the echo of a smile, Keith joins them both back on the blankets. Pidge shuffles a little closer, their knees bumping. “If it’s cool with you, just once more.”

“Cool,” Pidge says just to be deliberately snarky. But set against it her eyes are soft and whisper gratitude.

“Hey, Keith...” Lance sounds curious and already Keith knows from the waggle of those eyebrows exactly what this entails. “Do you have anything to say about-”

“-No.” The response is immediate and not without a pinch of exasperation. Pidge snickers.

“Oh come on?! You said all that nice stuff about Pidge, what about me?”

“Sorry,” Keith smirks and folds his arms across his chest. Closing his eyes, he juts his chin out for extra effect. “You refunded our bonding moment, I’m currently at one per person. No freebies.”

Once again, it’s easier to joke about it than address that heavyweight lodged uncomfortably between his ribs.

From that point on, they settle into a routine Keith doesn’t expect to fall into so easily. But they make it easy. The pair of them make it so easy to get closer, to slip further into their company. Lance steers most of the conversation between the three of them, even if most of it is picked up by Pidge. Not that Keith minds observing and sitting in quiet. Keith chips in every now and again with ambiguous answers that don’t lead anywhere particularly interesting. But despite that, the idle chatter continues, and Pidge keeps eyeing him like a puzzle she can’t quite solve but wants to.

The face masks eventually come off and Keith can’t pretend that his skin doesn’t feel absolutely incredible because god it really does. He smooths a hand over his cheek, momentarily admiring how the skin tingles. It’s the same kind of tingling that bursts hard and fast in his chest without warning. There’s newfound mirth bubbling in his belly, in a way that has his shoulders swaying and throat notably tickled. For some inexplicable reason, his pulse bounces through him. If he opens his mouth, Keith isn’t sure whether words or intangible laughter will tumble out. Maybe a messy mix of both.  

In fact, Keith doesn’t realise how just comfortable he has become until Lance brings up the subject of films. And before anyone else can get a word in his posture straightens and the words jump out his mouth.

“Sharknado is a cinematic masterpiece ahead of its time.”

There’s an abrupt silence. Surprisingly, it's not a judgemental one. To prove that, Lance throws him off entirely with an enviable dry deadpan.

“You know, it actually is.”

Keith blinks. Well. There’s only one thing to do. Raising his head, the inkling of something daring dancing in his eyes, Keith probes.

“Honda’s _Godzilla,_ or nothing.”

“Original syfy movies.”

Keith sits up at that, interest piqued. Whilst he enjoys a lot of the early science fiction classics, he can’t resist the pull of those films. There’s something so honest and charming about them. Tilting his head, he considers Lance for a moment. Maybe they do have more in common than initially thought. Lance waggles his fingers.

“Take off those emo gloves and bring your hands over here already.” It’s a complete curveball in their discussion.  

“What- that’s - I -” Keith splutters despite himself. Pidge is lathering up some kind of moisturiser from a green bottle Lance passed to her, rubbing it into her hands. “Why?”

“Because we’re doing some stuff for hands now.” Pause. Lance quirks an eyebrow. “Is that... okay?”

It’s not a challenge, it’s a genuine question as to whether this is pushing boundaries. But Keith accepts it as a challenge anyway. Removing his gloves, Keith holds out his hands. Lance pries the bottle from Pidge, smoothing some into his palms before reaching forwards. Keith isn’t sure what to expect, but the dull pressure is welcomed.

“Oh my god…” Lance breathes, turning Keith’s hands over and brushing across them. Keith curls his fingers to chase the touch before he can stop himself. It’s a knee-jerk reaction he didn’t even know he had burrowed deep inside. But it's intense. Instinctive. The touch just feels nice, as does Pidge’s foot pressing into his side. His skin burns in a way that’s painful to acknowledge for what it truly means. Keith sinks against this sensation instead, desperately willing for neither of them to notice or bring it up.

Breath hitching, Keith looks down at his hands. They’re trembling.

“What?” he manages weakly. Doubt builds. Keith starts to tug away.    

“Are you serious?!” Pressing his thumb into Keith’s palm, Lance pulls Keith’s hands back. He’s so gentle about it that Keith has to look away. The gentle kneading is soothing in ways Keith can’t explain. Small repeated motions coax his muscles to unwind. It’s raw exposure, like Lance is tracing over a bundle of wires. And they're crackling, definitely live. “You have hands like this and you still wear _gloves._ That’s so unfair!”

“I like my gloves.” Keith does. They’re practical and they look cool. It’s easier to state this one fact he’s always known rather than the new ones creeping into focus now. God, this is really nice. The moisturiser is refreshing, the warmth of another person’s hands is almost too much.

“Pidge,” Lance taps his fingers lightly over knuckles. There’s something skating in his eyes that is misplaced when set against the carefree atmosphere around them. It suggests Lance has noticed something he shouldn’t have, and now he’s testing the waters. “You won’t believe how smooth Keith’s hands are.”

Reaching out curiously, Pidge pokes at his hand.

“Huh, I always thought they’d be rough. But they really are soft…” The poking turns into inquisitive tracing over his hands and Keith can’t help it. Just as Lance lets go and Pidge’s fingers ghost away he lunges forwards and squeezes hard, holding their retreating hands in place against his own. Realisation sets in too late. Eyes widening, Keith stares down at their hands. The hands he’s still holding. Oh. _Oh._

Oh no.

“Keith-...?” Pidge’s voice is so soft, trailing off and laced in uncertainty. She isn’t sure what to do, and Lance is so quiet. But his eyes are wide and _knowing._  Keith can’t face this, not now. No way. 

“Sorry.” He tears his hands away frantically. “Sorry, I’m sorry I-... I-” As he makes a move to stand he stumbles over the blanket, barely regaining his balance in the process. Heading to the door with haste, Keith bows his head. Damn this. “I should go - I mean, I have to go. _I have to go.”_

The lighthearted atmosphere wrestles itself out of his grasp, giving way to something overwhelming. Everything they’ve built in this room crumbles beneath his feet. Fire blazes across his skin, flaring dangerously. It burns only him. And it doesn’t stop, it grows and the smoke billows. Higher. Further. Relentless and powerful. His lungs are completely smothered. Keith wants to claw a hole in his chest, cleave it all out.

Maybe he shouldn’t be here at all. It’s not self-depreciation, just the bitter resigned truth. He doesn’t fit, _not really._ No matter how much they’ve been trying, the elephant in the room is still him. The anomaly staining this picture is him.

In hindsight, the training deck probably was the better option for everybody.

A force barrels into him from behind, preventing him from escaping this terrible unravelling. His balance wavers with the collision, but a tight squeeze holds him firmly in place. Eyes wide, Keith freezes. His breath catches when he looks down. Pidge’s arms are around his waist, her face pressed against his back. She says something into his shirt. The words are muffled, but Keith isn’t sure he could process them even if they weren’t. For the life of him he can’t move, he can’t do _anything_ besides stare down gormless at Pidge’s hands. Of all the things he expected, it certainly wasn’t this. Never this.

A light swat to his shoulder has Keith pulling his gaze away. Lance holds the gloves out, a little sheepish. Perhaps even apologetic. His eyes jump between Pidge and the ceiling. Keith wants to take the gloves back, but his fists are clenched hard by his side. Honestly, his composure hinges on keeping them there. So he stays put. Lance finally meets his gaze, biting down on his lip. Slowly, he reaches down for Keith’s right hand and hovers just above. It's a request. Keith lifts his fist to bump Lance’s palm. It’s subtle, as is the weak nod he gives. But it says everything Lance needs to know. Lance pulls the first glove over Keith’s fingers before moving to the next hand and doing the same. With a light pat, he steps back.

And then the moment shatters.

Keith is honestly so thankful for the way Lance shifts the mood. It's done so effortlessly. He lets all of this slip through his hands rather than dangling the string. It’s probably one of the nicest things Lance has ever done for him.

“Guys, come on! Now we’re officially behind schedule!” Lance slumps dramatically back onto the blankets, scowling at Pidge who is so very still behind Keith. Maybe she’s embarrassed. Keith sneaks a glance over his shoulder - her bushy hair betrays nothing.

“Uh, Pidge,” Keith starts once he tries to take a few steps. The arms around his waist are getting a little constricting. “Sorry it’s - just, I - I can’t breathe.”

Now he's trying to move, he  _can't._ Keith wheezes and immediately, he’s released. Pidge darts back, head bowed and purposefully hidden. Trying to revert back to some form of normalcy, Keith takes his place back between the pair of them. And it’s then he realises he is part of this scene. He always has been. More than he ever thought he could be. Because Keith felt several conversations happening over those last few moments. With Lance, and with Pidge. Words didn’t need to be said, but they were heard and exchanged in different ways between them. Contentment swirls in his fingers, languidly caressing the bruising shame that stings at his eyes.  

“Where’s my hug, Pidgey?” Lance asks.

Pidge throws one of the bottles across the room, narrowly missing the doorway. There's a smile on her face.

Keith lets the cards pressed close to his chest fall. He folds. 

And then he laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> the alternative title to this was 'treat yo self don't beat yo self' but i just couldn't stop laughing and went for the more poetic option. im on  tumblr  so come chat anytime!


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